


Spirits When They Please

by politeanarchy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid, Inexperienced Crowley, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Multi, Other, at least they're having fun, going Too Fast, making all sorts of efforts, pronouns all over the place, this probably counts as crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politeanarchy/pseuds/politeanarchy
Summary: A wildly improbable take on how Aziraphale and Crowley spent the night, after the world didn't end.





	Spirits When They Please

**Author's Note:**

> For spirits when they please  
Can either sex assume, or both; so soft  
And uncompounded in their essence pure,  
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb,  
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,  
Like cumbrous flesh; but in what shape they choose  
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,  
Can execute their airy purposes,  
And works of love or enmity fulfill.
> 
> —John Milton, _Paradise Lost,_ Book I

The bus pulls to a stop in front of them. As they stand up from the bench, Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and says quietly, "You're quite right. I believe I owe you a tremendous apology. In fact, several." They walk back through the bus, far enough to be out of earshot of the driver. "But yes. _Our_ side." As they sit down, he reaches for Crowley's hand. For the first time in the history of public transportation, they sit side by side, leaning against one another. Together. Neither speaks, through the slow dark unfolding miles, all the way back to London. 

* * *

It isn't until they arrive at Crowley's flat and are standing in the front hall that the silence is broken. It's dim and shadowy. Crowley doesn't need light to see, and mostly doesn't remember to turn on lights when he's at home. The only illumination comes from a few patches of pinkish-orange streetlight that filter in through the windows, a gentle reminder that the city still exists. Crowley has just taken off his sunglasses and set them down, when Aziraphale says quietly, "If I were to tell you it's very kind of you to let me stay, would you push me up against a wall again?"

Crowley is very tired, and desperately confused about an awful lot of what's happened in the past few days, and right now he can't even tell if this absolute _bastard_ of an angel is worried about the prospect or _hopeful._ "Aziraphale—"

"It's just, we're probably already in as much trouble as it's possible to be in, so surely it wouldn't hurt for me to say thank you properly."

Crowley stares at him, forgetting to breathe, his yellow eyes glowing in a stripe of window light. The angel is standing in a patch of shadow, surrounded by a faint, ethereal glow.

"I want to be allowed to say thank you, because you always try so hard to help, and you care so much about the humans, and the world, and—"

And now Crowley does push Aziraphale against the wall. Gently. Deliberately. Looking into his eyes as though to ask _Is this all right? Is this going too fast for you?_

"And I love you, Crowley," finishes Aziraphale, and kisses him.

It's tentative at first: a question. An offer. Crowley makes a small, startled noise, then very decisively kisses him back. After some time, he backs off long enough to say, "Yeah, me too."

Suddenly it's all too much, and Crowley is pulling Aziraphale away from the wall, wrapping long arms around him, holding on desperately like a drowning man clutching at an unexpected bit of driftwood. "Oh, angel, you were _gone_! I thought I'd lost you."

Aziraphale holds Crowley, runs his fingers through soft red hair. "Shhh," he says. "I'm here now. It's all right."

"'S not all right, though. We've pissed off _both_ sides, and they're not just going to let us quietly disappear off into the sunset, are they? There are going to be consequences."

"You're shaking, love. Can we, I mean, is there anywhere in this dreary flat of yours that we could sit down?"

Still holding on to each other, they manage to find their way to Crowley's dramatic slab of a couch, and sit on it. It's more comfortable than it looks. They snuggle closely, needing the reassurance of touch to remind them that they're still here, still part of the world, at least for now.

"I've been thinking," says Aziraphale. "If everything that happened today really was part of the Ineffable Plan, and I don't see how it _couldn't_ be, then all the things you and I did must also be part of that plan. Including our being here, right now."

"I suppose so." Crowley nods.

"Then it cannot possibly be wrong for me to feel the way I do about you. I should have realized that love isn't a bad thing, or a mistake, or a temptation to be resisted. I'm sorry I was so slow to understand, and said such awful things to you."

"I might be willing to forgive you, if you kiss me again," suggests Crowley.

This kiss is more confident, and goes on for a while, in an exploratory sort of way. It feels absolutely right, this new kind of intimacy, after six thousand years of learning to know each other in so many other ways.

Crowley is just beginning to think maybe he doesn't want to do anything besides this, ever again, when Aziraphale shifts against him and a jolt of _something_ shoots through his body as though he's been struck by lightning, but in a good way. Now, Crowley does normally make An Effort, but only of the very most minimal sort. In practical terms, it's like those fake TVs they have at Ikea: the purpose is to fill in a blank space with the conventional shape, but it's not otherwise expected to be functional. Now it's as though he's been replaced with something state-of-the-art, high-definition, surround-sound-cranked-to-maximum-volume. It's a _lot_ of sensory input. "Oh!" he gasps. "That feels—"

Aziraphale is grinning at him, with those huge irresistable eyes. "Mmm, yes, what shall we do? I think I'm looking forward to finding out what kinds of things you like."

"Well, I like everything I've tried so far..." Crowley is awkward, apologetic, and Aziraphale is suddenly worried that an awful lot of things he's assumed about typical demonic behavior may be dead wrong.

He pulls Crowley into a gentle, reassuring hug, and asks "What have you tried so far?"

"Kissing you. And, er, whatever that thing was that you did just now."

"Oh my. Oh, my dearest darling demon, I had no idea I'd so much more experience than you."

Crowley is cringing into himself with misery now, because he _wants_ to try things, he really does, but now he's _ruined everything_, he's such a _disappointment_, Aziraphale is _looking at him_ like...Oh. _Oh._

Aziraphale is looking at him like he's an incredibly rare and precious manuscript, possibly salvaged from the Library of Alexandria, full of mysterious ciphers that no one's ever read. Aziraphale looks like he wants to study Crowley with infinite care and attention to subtle details, very thoroughly, until he understands all his secrets. Aziraphale is, in fact, radiating such delight, such absolute glee at the prospect, that Crowley is immediately cheered up quite a lot. Also intimidated. And extremely turned on. What has he gotten himself into? What happened to worrying about going too fast?

"Experience. You mean, with human-mortal-bodies kind of stuff? You mean, _sex_?"

"I think it's safe to say that my knowledge is extremely wide-ranging, yes. I was more or less hoping to put some of my expertise to good use on you."

"You WHAT?"

"Only if you want to. With humans, it's generally easy to sense what they're thinking, what they want. You'll have to tell me, so I don't go making wrong assumptions."

"Do you mean to say that all this time you've been having sex with humans?"

"Well, of course! It's a perfectly lovely way of providing someone with a standard moment of divine bliss."

Crowley makes a sort of hopeless bubbling noise as Aziraphale carries on.

"Surely you must do similar sorts of things, in your line of work. Of course, in your case, it would presumably fall into the category of Lust."

"I, er. More sort of encourage humans to do the actual..."

"You go around looking like _that_, and then _don't_..."

"Yeah, well, it turns out that humans who are frustrated and disappointed are nicely susceptible to all sorts of other suggestions. And tend to make bad decisions, all on their own. Lots of useful results, very little work on my part."

"Yes, and by the same token, anyone who makes music or art is likely to do much better work when they're emotionally and physically fulfilled. They're so interesting, humans, and so wonderfully creative when they're inspired."

Crowley's eyebrows can't go any higher without inflicting serious damage on his hairline. "You've been _inspiring_ humans by going to bed with them."

"Some of them, yes. From time to time."

There is a somewhat strained silence. Aziraphale seems to be lost in wistful reminiscence, the specifics of which Crowley doesn't like to think about. Not that that stops him. He'd never realized what a treacherous thing an imagination could be.

"So, how many people have you had, um, _relations_ with?"

"You make it sound so...tawdry. I loved them, you know." Aziraphale sniffs. "I suppose it probably works out to about one or two a century."

Crowley is beginning to get hold of himself now, and is moving from _stupefied_ to merely _gobsmacked_. "Just a standard 'moment' you say?" He leers tauntingly at Aziraphale.

"Have to be a bit careful about that, actually. Much more than a moment, and you start to get side effects. I still feel bad about poor Hildegard."*

"Ngk," says Crowley.

*Saint Hildegard of Bingen was a visionary writer, composer of music, illuminator of manuscripts, and healer. She suffered from migraines and occasional levitation. It is rumored that in an apocryphal, unsigned letter, she described these experiences as "worth it."

"Anyway, there hasn't been anyone in a fairly long time. Not since I realized that I cared about you too much to have that sort of interest in anybody else." Aziraphale runs his finger along Crowley's jawline, teasingly, before cupping his face and kissing him softly again.

Minimal as it is, that sets off the electric technicolor buzzing in Crowley's body again, and he realizes he has no idea what to do. For all that he's learned over the centuries about what humans do with their bodies, he never expected to get this far himself. It's a language he knows how to read, but not speak. He knows how to tempt, how to put certain ideas in people's minds, how to make them want and need and desire, and then how to leave them floundering and desperate. But demons aren't supposed to have desires themselves. They're supposed to be the cause of desire in others, while they themselves remain cynical, detached, indifferent.

Crowley is about as far from indifferent as it is possible to be. As Aziraphale kisses him more deeply, inchoate thoughts spin and orbit through him, colliding with each other until he's dizzy. He holds on to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is steady and stable and solid. Crowley is falling apart, but Aziraphale is his center, and Aziraphale is holding him carefully.

Aziraphale clearly knows what he's doing. He's been running his hands lightly over Crowley's back, and now he pulls Crowley onto his lap, knees on either side of Aziraphale's warm thighs. It's easy to forget how strong he is, and oddly reassuring to be reminded. "Is this all right?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"Yes," says Crowley. They're pressed very closely together, and they can feel the warmth of each other through all the layers they're still wearing. They have abandoned their jackets and shoes, somewhere along the way, but are otherwise still completely clothed. In spite of that, Crowley feels impossibly exposed, _aware_ of breathing and heartbeats and all the points of contact between them, knowing that Aziraphale is just as aware of him. No secrets, not anymore. All the weight of that awareness is concentrating itself into hot pressure, low down, and he can feel an answering pressure from Aziraphale, which excites him even further.

"Why did I ever think such tight trousers were a good idea, though," he mutters, under his breath, "with _silk_ underneath, of all things," and shifts his hips slightly to see if that's any more comfortable. However, it has the effect of rubbing him against Aziraphale, which sends an effervescent shock through his entire body.

"Oooh, yes," responds Aziraphale, and Crowley makes a ragged sound and just keeps on, his hips moving without his conscious control, his arms folding around Aziraphale to reassure himself that the angel is _here,_ not discorporated, not marching in an army of celestial righteousness, not gone _ no not that please never not that_

Crowley is spinning into infinite darkness, molecules unraveling, he's falling, only he's not falling because

Aziraphale is with him, Aziraphale's body is squirming underneath him, Aziraphale is holding him, Aziraphale is kissing him, Aziraphale is _Aziraphaleaziraphaleaziraphale_

_"Aziraphale!"_ Crowley shouts, as a supernova explodes in him and through him, blinding light-heat shockwaves that leave him shuddering and gasping in Aziraphale's arms. It goes on for some time.

Slowly, his vision clears, his breathing slows. His ears are ringing slightly. He feels tingly all over, light and bubbling with joy. And, he realizes, sticky in some places. He tidies himself up with half a thought, and with the other half, realizes that now he has a very clear idea of what he wants: he wants to make Aziraphale feel like _that_ as soon as possible.

"Angel," he breathes, "Can I...?"

Aziraphale is flushed and glowing, pleased with the effect he's had on Crowley. He lets Crowley rearrange them so they're lying down on the couch. He makes small affirmative noises as Crowley undoes the buttons of his trousers, and then a sound that's a cross between a gasp and a giggle, which is a perfectly understandable reaction to having one's undergarments miraculously removed while the outer layer of clothing remains in place. That sort of thing tickles.

It also leaves him exposed, bobbing in the cool air between them while Crowley stares in fascination. Not for very long, though, because snake-like reflexes take over, and then Aziraphale is wrapped in slick warmth, while Crowley makes excellent use of his famously versatile tongue. And also, once he remembers he has them, his hands as well.

There is an interval which seems simultaneously endless and impossibly brief, and then Aziraphale is shouting Crowley's name into the echoing darkness of the flat.

They are still and quiet, then, for a little. Eventually Crowley picks himself up and drapes himself bonelessly across Aziraphale, who is utterly relaxed, and wearing a self-satisfied smirk. His fly is still undone. Crowley wriggles himself even closer, if that's possible, and kisses Aziraphale lingeringly.

"Are you really trying to claim you've never done this before?" says Aziraphale.

"Yeah, well, I have been studying the _theory_ of it for thousands of years. Just never put it into practice, is all."

"My dear boy, you must be a remarkably quick learner."

Crowley basks in this, regarding Aziraphale fondly. Aziraphale is watching him, as though considering what to do next. What Crowley does next is laugh, sudden and delighted.

"Look at us! We were in such a hurry to get each other off that we never even managed to get undressed. You're still wearing your bow tie!"

They both find this hilarious, and dissolve into wheezing giggles. Aziraphale pushes Crowley off him, then sits up and leans against him while he does up his trouser buttons.

"Are you suggesting," says Aziraphale solemnly, "that perhaps I should slip into something more comfortable?" Crowley can tell he's really making an effort to sell this line, but the effect is rather ruined by the tiny undignified snort of laughter that follows.

"Like what?"

Reality ripples slightly as Aziraphale _changes._ Things are redistributed, masses shift here and there, shining pale hair lengthens into ringlets, then neatly gathers itself up into a loose knot with a few trailing wisps. She beams at Crowley, and it's the same damn smile, the same brilliant eyes, but all the curves have become softer and more coquetteish. The effect on the battered waistcoat and ridiculous tartan bow tie is quite remarkable.

"Oh! The last time I saw you looking like that, it must have been, what, seventeen-fifty-something?" Crowley doesn't know what he was expecting, but this is turning out to be even more interesting than he'd hoped. "I seem to remember you had the most enormous—"

"My dear!"

"—satin dress, all shimmery, like moonlight on water. Always liked that one."

"Ahhhhh."

"Speaking of _more comfortable_, I do have a bed available, you know."

* * *

Here, it may be worth mentioning that both Aziraphale and Crowley have spent the majority of their time on Earth appearing to be men. This is purely for the sake of convenience. Especially during the most recent few centuries, if one wanted to do things such as transacting business, or owning property, or taking a solitary walk down the street without interference, it was simply easier to appear male. Sometimes, though, for reasons either professional or personal, each of them had also occasionally been (or appeared to be) female. Often it wasn't necessary to be either, so sometimes they didn't bother. Theoretically, it would be possible to be _both_, but so far neither Crowley nor Aziraphale has had any pressing need to try it.

The point is: they have options, and are quite used to adapting themselves, as the circumstances should require.

* * *

There is a bed. Like its owner, it's dark and severe, all harsh angles. They haven't actually gotten to it, yet.

Crowley is taking some time to admire Aziraphale's new configuration. Somehow the angel's softness and strength are both enhanced: it's very easy to imagine her wielding a flaming sword, possibly while also wearing a steel breastplate and a helmet with horns on. Crowley is also remembering an era when voluptuous curves, blonde curls, and an air of unearthly innocence were the height of fashion, and Aziraphale was the darling of painters and royalty. In those days, being lanky, bespectacled, and bad with horses were distinct social drawbacks, and he'd felt rather out of the scene. 

Now, though, he's triumphant. He's survived storms and fire and the Devil himself. He may not exactly be a hero, but it would seem he's won the heart of the princess anyway.

"We ran into each other at that _salon_ in Paris, remember?" Crowley is undoing Aziraphale's bow tie, pausing to kiss her neck and throat. "You were more beautiful than any of the paintings." Aziraphale shivers a little, whether from the touch or the memory, Crowley isn't certain. He's starting to undo shirt buttons now, exposing collarbones and giving them due attention. "Wait a minute. Was he one of the artists you _inspired_?"

"Not directly. I may have met him socially a few times."

Crowley has realized he needs to take off Aziraphale's waistcoat before he can get any farther with the shirt. He unbuttons that and eases it off her shoulders, setting it carefully aside as he asks, "What _were_ you doing in Paris, then?"

"Befriending Madame de Pompadour. I was meant to be encouraging her to be a patron of the arts, do charitable work, that sort of thing. With the hope, of course, that the good influence would spread further. It was well known she had the ear of the king."

"_Do_ di—"*

*They don't.

_"Hush!"_ says Aziraphale, and muffles Crowley's voice with her lips.

This distracts Crowley from his continued fumbling with all the fastenings of Aziraphale's clothing. Cufflinks. Shirt buttons. More shirt buttons. Trouser buttons. So many buttons. It's okay, though. The frantic urgency of earlier has given way to something that is, if anything, more intense, but happy to take its time. Crowley is unwrapping Aziraphale like a gift, peeling away layers and taking joy in every new discovery.

He's finally gotten her shirt mostly undone, enough to slide his hands in, to feel the satisfying fluid weight of breasts, as they respond to both gravity and his touch. Aziraphale makes a delightful sort of humming noise, and arches toward him, leaning into the contact. Crowley has the presence of mind to miracle the shirt entirely away, leaving it neatly folded on top of the waistcoat, and feels very proud of himself for that.

Aziraphale has been likewise undoing the (fewer and simpler) zippers and such on Crowley's clothing, so they step out of their trousers more or less simultaneously. Crowley shrugs off his own shirt and drops it on the floor, leaving him in a pair of black silk shorts, absurdly tented at the front. Aziraphale is now wearing nothing, because Crowley already miracled away her* undergarments. _Wow, my past self managed to make a good decision for once,_ he thinks.

*Well, _his_ at the time.

Crowley is starting to be overwhelmed again. He wraps himself around soft pillowy curves, grabbing warm handfuls of angel flesh, kissing and tasting everything he can reach. Aziraphale slides her hands down his chest, pauses tantalizingly at the waistband of his shorts, and finally brushes the merest touch over the smooth fabric where it bulges. Crowley hisses, and his eyes go completely yellow.

"Ohhhhhhh. Aziraphale, I want...I want..._everything._" He writhes against her, frantically.

"And you shall have it, my love. May I offer a few suggestions about where to start?"

"I'm all ears."

They tumble together onto the bed. Aziraphale is somehow not surprised to discover that it's much softer and more welcoming than its appearance would suggest.

* * *

Time passes. Crowley adds considerably to his practical knowledge. Aziraphale has always admired Crowley's imagination, and now has even more reasons to do so.

At some point, Aziraphale decides to manifest as Classical Oiled Wrestler, and they make a spirited attempt to re-enact Crowley's allegorical statue, wings and all.

"Unfair! Evil is supposed to be _winning!_"

"Evil shouldn't be so ticklish, then."

"Arrgh! Stop that, you great feathery git!"

They both switch to female aspects instead, and continue to run their hands all over each other. Crowley tries to get revenge by being preternaturally flexible and skilled with her tongue. She has possibly underestimated Aziraphale's enthusiasm for eating. And her exquisitely manicured hands.

Eventually, they call it a draw.*

*But not the no-score kind.

* * *

Some hours later, Aziraphale and Crowley are leaning on each other, propped up by pillows. Aziraphale is rosy and faintly luminous, running fingers idly through Crowley's hair. Crowley is possibly more relaxed than any demon has ever been in the history of the world. They are blissed out, and worn out. Shapeshifting takes a certain amount of effort, and they've been engaging in a lot of vigorous physical activity in between changes. Now they're back to their most familiar shapes, resting comfortably, content with themselves and each other.

"All right then," Crowley says drowsily, "what's your favorite set-up? What combination of bodily attributes do you like best?"

Aziraphale thinks about the question. For quite a long time, actually. Crowley stares at the angel, and realizes he knows that look. It's the expression Aziraphale gets while studying a dessert menu, carefully weighing the relative merits of all the available options, giving each possibility the utmost consideration, and then cheerfully asking for one of everything.

"I couldn't possibly decide, my dear. Why, is there something else you'd like to try next?"

Crowley laughs. "I'm not sure there's much we _haven't_ tried. Unless you're thinking of some of the, er, _accessories_ humans use. I don't know if I'm up for that, tonight." Realization washes over him, then, and all the joyful giddiness drains away, leaving him tired and hopeless. "And there may not be a tomorrow. Heaven and Hell are going to catch up with us, sooner or later."

Aziraphale looks thoughtful at that, and pulls Crowley down into a comforting embrace.

"Still," says Crowley, perking up a little, "if this is going to be my last night in existence, I can't think of any other way I'd rather spend it."

"You've given me an idea."

"Honestly, I never expected you to be so insatiable."

Aziraphale swats at him playfully. "Not that kind of an idea. An idea about Agnes Nutter's final prophecy, about choosing our faces wisely. Listen..."

**Author's Note:**

> Bastille scene or no Bastille scene, I refuse to believe that Aziraphale doesn't speak French. He's an angel, a scholar, and someone who at least pretends to be an English aristocrat. All three of those categories have reasons to be fluent in French. And even without that, surely he'd do it for the pastries.
> 
> Some bits of this story were probably influenced by this short fic on Tumblr: <https://ineffable-feels.tumblr.com/post/187236779013/concept>
> 
> And while you're on Tumblr, check out [my Good Omens one](https://politeanarchy.tumblr.com)!


End file.
